Do Not Go Gentle
by Griffinkhan
Summary: (one shot) 'Rage, rage against the dying of the light...'


DO NOT GO GENTLE  
  
by Griffinkhan  
  
_  
  


* * *

  
Do not go gentle into that good night,  
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  
  


* * *

  
_

The door banged open, allowing the howling storm outside a brief entrance to the room. A cloaked figure darted inside, his slick cloak showing he had been out in the storm for some time. His quick footsteps towards the desk left a trail of puddles on the polished inn floor.  
  
"Sorry about that," he apologized to the woman behind the desk. He removed his hood, revealing blonde hair plastered down by the rain and a face worn by travel. He was not old enough to be a man but too old to be a child, stuck somewhere in between.  
  
"It's all right," the innkeeper assured him, coming to take his cloak. "Are you here for the night?"  
  
The boy nodded, handing her a few coins along with the cloak. "I'll be leaving in the morning."  
  
"I'll go and prepare a room, then," she replied. "Feel free to look around while you're waiting." She slipped off into a back hallway, leaving him alone in the large entry foyer.   
  
But he was not quite alone. Another person sat in an armchair by the front window, watching the rain. He was bundled up in an old blanket. Only his hair, silver with age, was visible from between the heavy fabric folds.   
  
The boy approached him slowly, unsure whether he should speak. The man seemed not to notice, his blue eyes with their silver spectacles remaining fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the falling curtain of gray.  
  
"She always loved the rain, you know," he said suddenly, startling the boy. The man's voice was like an old stone building, weather-beaten and strong, but slowly crumbling into ruin.   
  
"Who?" the boy asked tentatively.  
  
"My wife," the man answered, still looking out the window. "Yes, she always did love the rain..."  
  
"What happened to her?"   
  
"She died," The man turned from the window, his eyes filled with rain as well. "A long, long time ago."  
  
"...I'm sorry," the boy stammered, unsure how to reply.  
  
"Of course you are. Everyone's sorry for things they can't change." He closed his eyes briefly, then smiled. "You should remember that. Don't worry about what you can't change, it'll ruin you. Live life while you can, because even heroes grow old." He opened his eyes again and stared straight into the boy's, seemingly peering into the depths of his soul. "Even heroes."  
  
The boy shifted uncomfortably. "I'll remember."  
  
The old man turned back to the window. "No, you won't. Five seconds from this room and I'll be forgotten already. No one remembers..."   
  
He trailed off, his gaze wandering back to the window. For several seconds, there was silence. The boy stood beside the chair, wondering if he should leave.   
  
"I saved the world once, you know..." the man said, his voice no more than a whisper. "You wouldn't ever have guessed it, would you?" He turned back to the boy with a wry smile. "To you, I'm a crazy old man who's lost his mind... But even I was young once. You must remember... but no one ever does..."  
  
The boy knew he shouldn't apologize, so he smiled gently back instead.   
  
"You're a nice lad," the man said. "You remind me of someone I used to know... Haven't seen him in a long time. Wonder where he went...?"  
  
"Grandpa!" The innkeeper had returned. She hurried across the floor towards the traveler and the old man.   
  
"I told you not to bother the guests," she said, looking haggard. The old man glanced up at her mournfully, then turned back to the window.   
  
The woman touched the traveler's arm and led him away from the armchair. "I'm sorry about that," she said apologetically. "He's not quite right in the head anymore... I've asked him not to pester people, but..."  
  
"It's all right," the boy assured her. "It's not a problem..." He took one last glance towards the window as he was led from the room. The old man was watching him. The blue eyes pierced his soul again, seeming to be reminding him to remember.  
  
"Who is he?" he asked the innkeeper as they walked along the corridor.   
  
"Oh, he's my Grandpa Isaac," she answered, brushing a few strands of blue hair from her eyes. "Poor man... Father told me he's been like this ever since Grandma died. That was before I was born. He lives with me now because he can't take care of himself."  
  
The boy was silent for a moment. "He saved the world once, you know," he blurted suddenly.  
  
She smiled at him gently. "I'm sure, in his own way, he did."  
  


_*~fin~*_  
  
_  
  
And you, my father, there on the sad height,  
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  
Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  
  
-Dylan Thomas  
  
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End file.
